Brown green grizzled twisted branch,
Bracing against the unswerving sun.
Yet, fresh and living ageing haunch,
With nests to be built and webs spun.
Standing, not cowering against the breeze,
Watching the clouds with rain fill aplenty.
Weaving a pattern within the wood of trees,
To catch the soil and drain it empty.
With birdsong and insect singing alive,
There’s heart in your majestic serenity.
With every chance and hope to survive,
To hold the calmness of your infinity.
As the golden orb sails away to night,
Your stature accepts the fleeting moons requiem.
The silence begins and then takes flight,
Until the morning rise starts the cycle again.
(An old tree in a field by